Mortal Intervention
by C.J.Ellison
Summary: - JFA Era - Even the inevitable needs a trigger. For Phoenix and Maya, their catalyst came in the form of a murder backstage a sold-out performance of Chicago, the prodigal fifteen year-old suspect, and the case's unexpected connection to the heir of the von Karma family legacy- and the prosecutor who chose death. [Phoenix/Maya, some implied Miles/OC]


**_Cover image by the fabulous Sakudrew on deviantART. Thanks for letting me borrow it, Saku!_**

* * *

_The scene was set. _

_The night was almost mockingly beautiful, the velvet-ink skies studded with the cold, distant light of a scattering of stars, embossed with a translucent, filmy ghost of the waxing moon. The midnight hour chilled the air, making the streets crisp and icy, snapping with the threat of frost, seething with the swish of cars on asphalt. A fine mist autumnal softened the glare of the streetlamps, their colours splintering and refracting and glittering like diamond dust, becoming beautiful and subtle shades of pale gold and amber and silver._

_His footsteps shattered the delicate stillness as he walked towards the place serving as their stage: a vast sunken quadrangle of elaborate stone paving, framed in concrete steps and slender brass railings and neat lines of decorative cherry-blossoms, the dark twisting branches bare and brittle in the November air. On the far side of the plaza a luminous clock face was suspended in the darkness like a second moon, its stark white light hinting at the edges of the old brickwork where it was mounted, illuming the diaphanous fog._

_If he hadn't known better, he might have said that the scene laid before him had been extracted from a dream. He wasn't entirely convinced, even now, that it wasn't._

_Descending the short flight of steps, he glanced up at the heavens, watching as the clouds slipped from over the moon like wisps of smoke, transforming it from a rice paper lamp into a spectre so bright that he was forced to look away. His gaze skittered back to earth hastily, drifting, then snagging, upon a hazy silhouette- a shadowed contour etched against the cascading waters of the fountain. He felt a tongue of ice run down the length of his spine, his heart leaping to pound in his mouth. Perched on the wide brim of the ornate marble fountain bowl, dithering like a daydream in the mist, she was waiting for him, just as she had said she would be- as though she had absolutely nothing better to do at two in the morning._

Stupid, wonderful girl,_ he thought to himself bitterly._

_A blur of motion, rushing air in his ears and through his hair, and then he was stood right in front of her. She had risen from her makeshift seat and was looking straight up into his eyes, her crystallised breath rising in ice-white plumes in the fraction of space between them. The night dyed them both into monochrome, the streetlamps staining them with colours of dawn. He was so close that he could actually see the dewdrops gathered like constellations on her lashes and caught in the threads of her hair, and the vague reflection of himself and the stars in her irises, flickering like the flame on the wick of a candle when she blinked._

"_Hi," she breathed numbly._

"_You came," he replied, as inexplicably breathless as she was, the right words slipping away from him the moment they arrived on his usually silver tongue. "I… well, I'm… thank you."_

_She smiled brilliantly. "For what? It's not like I could sleep anyway." If she noticed his lack of articulation (she probably had; those pretty eyes of hers were entirely too observant, and she had a mind like a razor blade), she didn't say. Instead, her beautiful smile turned wan, and she said listlessly, "This is it, isn't it?"_

"_What is?" He dodged the expected question smoothly, deliberately using what he knew to be his silkiest tone to distract her. The wind picked up and a violent shiver ran through her before she could answer, and he found himself taking note of what she was wearing; she was well over a head shorter than him in flats, a delicate pair of which she had thrown on in her apparent haste, along with a thin jacket completely unsuited to the weather. He shook his head, cutting off whatever reply she had been about to give._

"_You're freezing," he said._

"_Wh-what? No, I'm fine."_

"_Liar."_

_Without stopping to think, he stepped forwards and took hold of her wrist, tugging her towards him in one fluid movement and pressing her to him gently, shielding her from the cold. Her half-formed protests slurred against his chest for a few moments before she surrendered, sinking into him and the warm shelter of his arms, her own reaching up around his back and grasping at his coat. Her long hair was glossy and cold beneath his fingers, the skin of the nape of her neck startlingly warm in comparison._

"_So… this is goodbye."_

_He dipped his head, a small, rueful smiled forming on his mouth, the sharp breeze ruffling his fringe as it fell across his eyes. There was nothing accusatory in her words: no bitterness, or anger, or regret. Just quiet acceptance, and the faintest hint of sadness._

"_Yes."_

_He had sounded so detached, so heartless, so expressionless, that for a moment he almost regretted it. Once more, he felt incomprehensibly guilty for something that his heart didn't understand. All he knew was that it felt like a betrayal, and immeasurably cruel._

_But he was never the type to lie to spare a person's feelings. And she- she had always valued the truth so very highly. So he swallowed his apology, and waited._

_She shifted in his embrace, but didn't pull away. "Thought so."_

_Their stage fell silent, the audience of the jewel-bright moon and the multitude of stars watching patiently, poised for the final _coup de grâce_._

"_Promise me something," she said suddenly, her voice humming through his coat._

_He dropped his head to hear her, the ends of his fringe brushing against his cheekbones. "Yes?"_

"_Don't forget about me."_

_He gave a short humourless laugh, insulted by the mere insinuation. "As if I could."_

_She prodded his spine reproachfully. "Be serious, I meant it. Please, no matter how caught up you get in everything, promise me that you won't forget what I've-"_

"_For such an intelligent girl, you can really talk like a complete and utter fool sometimes," he interrupted, amused by it all in spite of himself. "But, very well- I'll promise you. With every sunrise and sunset, in every victory, even the very darkest moments of my life, I will remember you." He paused, waiting for her reply. "How does that sound?"_

"_Honestly? Excessive."_

_He laughed again, this time warm and bittersweet, and he was shocked when the sound caught in his chest. "Mm. Perhaps." He swallowed thickly, twisting a lock of her long hair around his index finger idly, attempting to concentrate on the way light chased along the taut strands instead of the feeling that was welling up inside him, threatening to suffocate and destroy him if he let it. "Still. I am going miss you." He released her hair from his grip and watched it unravel swiftly, his throat closing up as he forced the last word out. "I-intensely."_

_She leaned back to look at him, smiling radiantly even as the tears brimmed over her lashes._

"_And I, you, Miles Edgeworth."_

* * *

**.:~*~:.**

* * *

Prologue  
_Overture_

At eight o'clock exactly, the house lights of the vast theatre hall dimmed dramatically, leaving only a single halo of spotlight pooling on the section of the stage that curved around the orchestra pit. An anticipatory hush fell over the audience, embroidered with a few muffled rustles and coughs as a figure in a sharp black suit stepped into view, jacket glinting with countless black sequins and buckle wingtip shoes shining.

"_Ladies and gentlemen!" _The voice rang through the stillness and up to the ceiling, the sallow light gleaming off slicked hair, fingers caressing the slim silver stand of the baton microphone._ "You are about to hear a story of murder, greed, corruption, violence, exploitation, adultery and treachery- all those things we hold near and dear to our hearts. So… if you're all seated comfortably… Hit it!"_

The spotlight waned and the announcer swept away, dragging the microphone stand and its trailing wire with them, as the brassy tone of a lone trumpet filled the echoing hall, drawing out the first notes of the overture. The orchestra pit gave off a soft, cool glow as the languorous notes slowed, lengthened, and lingered.

A voice cried through the darkness, husky and fast-paced: _"Five-six-seven-eight!"_

The music and the stage lights both exploded to life. The orchestra struck up, the bulb lights studded around the mouth of the stage ignited, a pale blue flush flaring up behind the cityscape backdrop. A wide set of stairs swept down to the main stage, the upper wings set with round tables draped in crisp white cloths and sparkling wine and whiskey glasses. Waitresses milled about the hems of the stage, carrying ebony trays clinking with glasses filled with ice and alcohol, and a troop of dancers drew into position either side of the stairs, strutting and preening in short skirts and long strings of beads and open-cut sleeveless tops.

The music rose and sped, and the announcer exclaimed above it, _"Ladies and gentlemen! The Eclipse Theatre is proud to present Chicago's hottest dancing duo- two jazz babes, moving as one: the Kelly sisters!"_

An obligatory smatter of light applause rose from the audience as the troop froze in formation. The music slowed, dropping away until only the steady beat of the percussion remained.

At the top of the stairs, a figure that flashed and twinkled as though strung with droplets of starlight sashayed into centre stage. Her hips were cocked beneath the black spangled dress, cropped hair glistening like tar in the cold blue and double white spotlights that converged upon her.

"_Come on, babe, why don't we paint the town…_"

A wordless murmur ran through the audience. The voice was clear and crystalline, but clouded with the smoked, mocking almost-laugh of 'Velma Kelly', intoxicating and almost magnetic.

"_- and all that jazz? I'm gonna rouge my knees, and roll my stockings down…_" The singer paused, hips switching, the dancers onstage below mirroring her perfectly. "_And all that jazz! Start the car, I know a whoopee spot, where the gin is cold but the piano's _hot_! It's just a noisy hall where there's a nightly brawl, and all- that- jazz…_"

* * *

_Sound was muffled backstage; the low hum of the music only just made it through the dressing room door, left slightly ajar in its occupant's haste. A shaft of pale light cut through the darkness through the crack, tracing out the edges of a wide dressing table crowded with bottles and jars and makeup brushes, of a black chemise and silk robe hanging on a gilt rail, the gleaming surface of a mirror._

* * *

The troop moved sharply with the music's ebb and flow, their hazy reflections on the stage's surface following every step, punctuated with a swishing hiss and deliciously synchronised _click_s.

"_Find a flask, we're playing fast and loose… and all that jazz! Right up here is where I store the juice… and all that jazz! Come on, babe, we're gonna brush the sky-_"

A collective gasp left the audience as the glittering siren was lifted, effortlessly, onto the shoulders of one of the inconsequential male dancers, fingers twisting in the air sensually. "_I bet you Lucky Lindy never flew so high! 'Cause in the stratosphere, how could he lend an ear to all-_"

Tossed back against another's shoulders, her spine arched in a beautiful curve, arms draping back like a swan.

"_That-_"

Flipped over their heads in a whirl of black beading and sheer garter stockings, she landed safely in their waiting arms, set on her feet smoothly.

"_Jazz…_"

* * *

_The adjacent bathroom was a tomb, every slight sound echoed and amplified, sealed and pitch-black._

_A coil of hair stuck to the column of her neck, the back of her skull pressed against the tiles. Her teeth clicked within her skull. Something was dripping from her fingertips and onto the rustling tarp of the shower curtain, syrupy and warm. _

_She could feel her blood congealing, thickening, clotting and cooling on her skin, matting in the fabric of her clothes._

* * *

"_All… that… jazz-!_"

The pace was frantic, breathless, sweeping spectators and performers alike into its thrall, a flurry of smooth kicks, broad strokes of hips and the _clack_ of heeled shoes, a storm of sound and movement and a single voice tying the chanting miasma of the chorus together.

"_I'm gonna rouge my knees and roll my stockings down- and all that jazz-!_"

"-_ shimmy 'til her garters break- and all that jazz!"_

" _Start the car, I know a-_"

"_Show her where to park her girdle- _oh_, her_-"

"- _but the piano's hot! It's just a noisy hall, where there's a nightly brawl and all- that-_"

The music hissed low, doused like water on flames.

"_Jazz…_"

* * *

_The room was crushingly silent._

* * *

The fizz of voices simmered away as the music rolled like thunder, rebuilding into its final crescendo. With a handful of quick strides that snapped like lightning bolts, the tassels of her short skirt rattling and cracking, the singer was stood right in front of the orchestra's pit, lit by an ethereal glow.

Above the final crash, she cried out, exultant and brilliant.

"_No, I'm no one's wife, but-! Oh, _I love my life! _And all-_ _that-!"_

The last note rang clear as crystal glass, a lasting ring of triumph within it.

"_Jazz-!_"

She pointed out to the crowd, glaring under her blunt, heavy fringe.

"_That jazz!_"

The audience roared their approval, cascades of applause and shrill whistles shaking the hall.

* * *

_And as her killer sang onstage to an adoring crowd, her heart stopped beating._


End file.
